If you are of a refined or delicate disposition, be warned - I really am going to talk about a toilet. And mystery mold.
One particular toilet, in fact; the non-handicapped stall in the Ladies' on my floor. It is my bathroom-away-from-home, because I think there's probably a circle of Hades set aside for able-bodied people who choose the handicapped stall over a normal stall*, or something. We certainly vie for the "normal" stall like we will otherwise be damned. Anywho.
It is a good toilet, as such things go, clean and well-functioning. But it has a unique feature, a birthmark of sorts; in the corner of the ceiling where it meets the stall wall there is a custard-colored snowflake. It has not grown or changed in any way since I started here a year ago, but its cheerful butterscotch color cheers me every time. Gods only know what mystery mold makes that color, and what spores it might belch on a microscopic level, but Fie, I say; It is cute, and it makes me happy.
This could almost have been one of my "Simple Pleasures" entries, if only there wasn't such a gray cloud in my toilet's silver lining; the paper liners. People go both ways on them, needing them to feel safe or condemning a wasteful act that preys on our hypochondria and supplies only psychosomatic protection. I can live without 'em, but prefer to use them if they're there. But I've never. NEVER. EVER been good at them. It's been years, I really have no excuse. Those things split in my hands, turning into parade-confetti supplies before my puzzled eyes. No matter how gently, or casually, or slowly I try to tear the central part loose from the border, it just becomes the flapping ragged sail of a ghost ship. (And those are not even remotely toilet-seat-shaped. Famed for it.) And even once I have something that can at least be sat on, in the time between putting it there and being ready to make contact it has sunk to the abyssal depths of the bowl like the ghost ship it thinks it's a part of. Well, it does follow; the majority of it hangs into the bowl, and then gets wet. It's just following its own poorly-thought-out design. So I usually have to sacrifice one to sleep with the fishes, and put another on top that will be partially supported by its brother in the water. But unfortunately, yesterday saw this sad moment on the left; even the second one started giving up the ghost when I went to go stage the photo-op. Maybe it's camera-shy?
So I'm like the ultimate waster; not only do I use them, I tend to use two; and then I did it just to take a picture of it. There's probably a Circle for people like me too. What would be hilarious is if it's right next to the one for choosing to use the handicapped stall if you're not handicapped. It would be just like old times...or, in other words, now.
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* Having no other stall to turn to or needing room coz you're big, have a kid, or need to change totally absolves you. You just end up in Ambiguous Bathroom Choices Limbo. It's like that waiting room from Beetlejuice.
One particular toilet, in fact; the non-handicapped stall in the Ladies' on my floor. It is my bathroom-away-from-home, because I think there's probably a circle of Hades set aside for able-bodied people who choose the handicapped stall over a normal stall*, or something. We certainly vie for the "normal" stall like we will otherwise be damned. Anywho.
 |
| I think it's happy-looking |
This could almost have been one of my "Simple Pleasures" entries, if only there wasn't such a gray cloud in my toilet's silver lining; the paper liners. People go both ways on them, needing them to feel safe or condemning a wasteful act that preys on our hypochondria and supplies only psychosomatic protection. I can live without 'em, but prefer to use them if they're there. But I've never. NEVER. EVER been good at them. It's been years, I really have no excuse. Those things split in my hands, turning into parade-confetti supplies before my puzzled eyes. No matter how gently, or casually, or slowly I try to tear the central part loose from the border, it just becomes the flapping ragged sail of a ghost ship. (And those are not even remotely toilet-seat-shaped. Famed for it.) And even once I have something that can at least be sat on, in the time between putting it there and being ready to make contact it has sunk to the abyssal depths of the bowl like the ghost ship it thinks it's a part of. Well, it does follow; the majority of it hangs into the bowl, and then gets wet. It's just following its own poorly-thought-out design. So I usually have to sacrifice one to sleep with the fishes, and put another on top that will be partially supported by its brother in the water. But unfortunately, yesterday saw this sad moment on the left; even the second one started giving up the ghost when I went to go stage the photo-op. Maybe it's camera-shy?
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| Por que, paper liners? |
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* Having no other stall to turn to or needing room coz you're big, have a kid, or need to change totally absolves you. You just end up in Ambiguous Bathroom Choices Limbo. It's like that waiting room from Beetlejuice.
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